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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

William Wordsworth

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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Wisest
Wise

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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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He loves not well whose love is bold! I would not have thee come too nigh. The sun's gold would not seem pure gold Unless the sun were in the sky: To take him thence and chain him near Would make his beauty disappear. William Winter, Love's Queen. The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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